


Blood-Red Hearts

by fajrdrako



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 19:03:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3821410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fajrdrako/pseuds/fajrdrako
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie goes to a funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood-Red Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> First published in Diverse Doings #7 from Straight Up Press, May 2001

When he first arrived at the cemetery, Doyle couldn't see Bodie. Pulling his collar up against the damp air, he trudged over to the funeral in progress, and stood on the periphery. The setting was classic, like so many CI5 funerals, and the funerals, like this one, of the criminals whose deaths they occasioned: the greystone church, lichened over since the days of the Saxons; the worn tombstones, the weary mourners.

The man who had been killed by Bodie was in a closed coffin. There were hearts carved on it. Doyle wondered what that had cost the widow. He wondered if it made the grieving family feel any better. The widow was crying, her children gathered around her. The children seemed more confused than sad. The dead man's mother hugged his wife, weeping herself. The Vicar used the word "untimely".

Then Doyle saw Bodie at last, staying beyond the rest of the crowd, alone by a group of trees. He worked his way around the people to get there. The damp air had worked itself into mist by then. Typical of February.

Bodie glanced at him, then back at the funeral, ignoring Doyle. Doyle ignored the fact that Bodie was ignoring him, and stood beside him.

Bodie said in an undertone, "You shouldn't be here." He had perfected the art of whispering without moving his lips. They'd both done it on many occasions, often when guarding someone, or when attending Cowley on something dangerous and secretive.

"Why the hell not?" Doyle hissed.

"Nothing to do with you."

"You're here."

"Sure. I killed the bastard." Bodie spoke without inflection. Without sign of regret.

"And I'm your partner."

Bodie was not impressed. His lip curled. "Get out of here."

"Paying your last respects, are you?"

"None of your business."

"For Christ's sake, Bodie!"

"Get lost."

Doyle glared at Bodie's profile. He wore his merc's expression, giving nothing away. "You feeling guilty?" The Vicar was talking about redemption in the eyes of God, and eternal peace.

"Should I?"

"No."

"You're fucking right there. The bastard was about to blow up women and children."

"You saved a lot of lives."

"Good."

"So why are you here?"

Bodie looked at him at last, but his expression was hard. Exasperation, Doyle guessed, as Bodie turned back to the funeral without speaking.

One of the boys started to cry and his mother kneeled down to comfort him. "They loved him," said Doyle.

"Yeah. So did his mistress over there, the one with the brown overcoat."

Doyle looked at the woman, wondering what had entangled her with the man in the coffin. His money? Had he been handsome sand charming? Doyle had never seen him alive. Bodie had shot the man first in the head and then in the heart with his Beretta 92. The entry wound had been neat and the exit wounds less so. Blood had spattered, then pooled on the asphalt. The stain wouldn't last long in this weather. "You did the right thing," said Doyle.

"Would they agree? Why'd she marry him, d'you think? Did she love him? Did he browbeat her into it? Was she pregnant, and forced to? Was she just stupid and young? Did he make a good husband? Did she know what he did, and not care?"

The questions were rhetorical. "She cares now," said Doyle.

"He was supporting her."

"And the mistress."

"Yeah, but she isn't crying."

"He has a will. They'll be all right."

Bodie frowned. "How could you ever be all right after being mixed up with a bloke like that?"

Doyle couldn't answer that, and didn't try. The dampness in the air turned into a Scotch mist, soaking his hair. "Let's go have a pint."

"You go."

"Not without you." Doyle touched his arm, and Bodie pulled away. "You're getting wet. The bastard doesn't deserve it."

"I'm not here for him."

"Why are you here, then? Are you going to go and comfort the pretty widow? Or the prettier girlfriend?"

Bodie glanced at him, his mouth set hard, and didn't answer.

"What do you think you're accomplishing?"

"Shut up, Doyle."

"Let's go. Listen, I'll buy you a pint."

"No."

"My place, then. It's dry there. Warm."

Bodie looked at him. "Doyle, I don't owe you an explanation."

Doyle had been in the building the dead man had been planning to bomb. He wasn't about to let this drop just because Bodie held his secrets to himself like a guardsman on duty, letting no one past his defenses. He was an annoying bastard, but incredibly brave. "You saved my life. You don't owe me anything, ever. Doesn't stop me from caring how you're going on."

Bodie looked at him again, then back at the funeral. A young man had glanced at them, noticing them talking and watching, probably wondering who they were. Probably guessing they were coppers, probably feeling no fondness for them.

It was starting to rain.

"Enough of this," said Bodie. "Right. Your place, your beer."

Each had his own car, so they drove back separately. Bodie took Doyle's favourite spot, so Doyle parked illegally in front of his neighbour's place. Bodie waited on the doorstep, and they went in together, dripping on the hall carpet. Doyle unlocked the door and held it open for Bodie. They put their coats on the coat-rack and Doyle went to turn up the electric heater. Bodie got beer, then, returning to the living room, handed an open bottle to Doyle. "Cheers," said Doyle.

Bodie sat on the sofa, his hands around the beer, leaving it untouched. Doyle took a drink, looking at him an said, "If this isn't guilt, what is it?"

"I don't like killing," said Bodie.

"Who does?"

"Half the world, it seems sometimes. That dead bloke, for starters. Mad Tommy. You know the types. The psychopaths, the self-obsessive, the bitter… the power hungry."

"Yeah," said Doyle, encouraging Bodie to go on. He didn't talk like this often, and Doyle always like it when he did. He liked to know what Bodie really thought, under the heavy layers of privacy and easy charm.

"I hate it, Ray. It's so fucking easy. Pull the trigger, pop, there they go. You've done it. Boom. End of a life. It shouldn't be that way."

"We don't kill unnecessarily," said Doyle, knowing Bodie knew that, feeling good as he said it because he wasn't real sure that he believed it himself. It was close to true. How close?

Bodie shook his head. "They say the only realities are death and sex."

"Thought it was death and taxes."

"That too. But bloody hell, Doyle, you like sex as much as I do and death… It'll happen. So why do we have to make it happen even more? Because we have to. Because there are people out there who kill and like it. Do you know how many people I've killed?"

"No," said Doyle honestly. He took another drink. Bodie still hadn't touched his.

"Neither do I. I lost count before I was twenty. It bothered me then, it bothers me now, but it was -- it is -- necessary. It shouldn't be that way, but it is."

"Uh-huh," said Doyle, watching his face. Bodie was the most expressive man he knew, when he wanted to be. A clam, sometimes.

"You know what's worse? I don't regret those deaths. They're my deaths, my kills, I'm the one who stopped their bloody beating hearts, and I can't regret it. I can't think of one I can't justify. You know my real regret? That there are a few people I didn't kill when I could have. Krivas, for one."

"I stopped you there," said Doyle.

"You were right. But I still wish I'd done it. You ever kill a woman? It ought to feel worse, but it doesn't. He put his face in his hands. "Someone has to stop the monsters. So I do. Someone has to do it."

"Not just you," said Doyle. "Us."

Bodie kept his face in his hands. Doyle put down his bottle of beer and went to sit beside him on the sofa. "It's the price of being CI5," he said.

"The curse, you mean," said Bodie, his voice more amused than bitter.

"The curse is having to kill sometimes. The price is having to put up with each other." He put his arm around Bodie's shoulders, feeling the heat and the strength of him. It always impressed him, the solid muscle that made up Bodie's body -- except when those cream puffs and Swiss rolls softened the belly.

Bodie said, "You take a life, you can't give it back. Whatever he had -- happy or unhappy childhood, all he learned, all he did, all the experiences that he had the no one else will ever have… Shit! Why do they mess up so badly?"

"Dunno," said Doyle.

Bodie turned. He put his head on Doyle's shoulder as Doyle gathered him into his arms. Doyle wasn't sure which of them initiated the position, but he liked it, the sense of comfort given and taken as he stroked Bodie's soft, damp hair with one hand. He felt protective of Bodie sometimes, which was stupid, being protective of a large, tough merc and an expert in weaponry, but there you had it. He knew Bodie felt protective of him, too, and just as well, or he might be in fragments on the pavement himself today.

"It isn't my own death I think about," said Bodie. "It's theirs. Their eyes. It's over for them. That makes them part of me, too. I can't forget that."

"Don't let them haunt you," said Doyle. "They don't deserve the power. They deserve to be forgotten."

"Even by me?"

Doyle smiled at the innocence of the question, rubbing his cheek against the top of Bodie's head. "No. Maybe not. But don't let them get to you."

"I had to decide," said Bodie. "I was seventeen years old and I knew what I was good at. I knew I'd get an opportunity with the mercs to really advance, really live the life of danger that I wanted. It terrified me, but I wanted it so badly I could feel it. I knew that if I took that step, it was a matter of killing or being killed, and I intended to kill and survive, which is the only way to do it, and I thought: can I live like that, and not be a barbarian?"

"You thought you could do it?"

"I didn't know."

"You thought about it, though," persisted Doyle.

"Course I did. Then again in the Paras, and again in the SAS, and…" Bodie stopped.

"And now."

"Yeah. Now."

"You ever find an answer?"

"No."

Doyle smiled, his cheek resting against the warm skin of Bodie's temple. "For what it's worth, I think you're mostly civilized."

"That a vote of confidence?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks. What do you mean, mostly?"

"A civilized barbarian?" suggested Doyle, wondering if Bodie were going to sit up and thump him. Instead, Bodie chuckled. "The thing is, you think about it. You care. That's what makes you a human being, and not a monster."

Bodie moved his head. For a moment, Doyle felt Bodie's closed eye resting against his cheek, with the tickle of lashes. Then he moved again, so his lips touched Doyle's lips. Doyle felt no surprise. It seemed utterly natural to be sitting there on the sofa kissing Bodie, the pleasure of the touch warming his body and quickening his pulse, the lovely unknown taste of Bodie's mouth making his heart beat harder. He wanted it to last forever.

His brain caught up to the feeling, and the sense of naturalness disappeared. He must have pulled away because suddenly they weren't kissing any more, though Bodie's hand was in his hair and their noses were an inch apart.

"Doyle?" said Bodie, a little flushed. His mouth wandered into a smile. "Should I apologize?"

"For what?" said Doyle, stupidly, then realizing what Bodie meant he simply bypassed explanation by kissing him again.

This time, he had the advantage of realizing what he was doing, and knowing how much he liked it. He could relish the sensations battering through him, joy and arousal and tenderness, and touch his tongue to the tip of Bodie's tongue, and let his hands wander over Bodie's back.

And Bodie liked it.

Bodie pulled him closer into his embrace, chest to chest, and that overbalanced them both so that they rolled in a graceful, controlled fall on to the floor. Bodie pushed the coffee table aside so they had space, but they weren't using it, they were clinging together. Bodie was careful not to put his full weight on Doyle, but he was half holding him down, half on top of him, his upper leg between Doyle's legs and his lower leg plastered thigh to thigh, and as he kissed, his hand was wandering under Doyle's shirt and his ups played with Doyle's lips.

Whatever weird mood Bodie was in, Doyle liked it. One hand was immobile, wrapped around Bodie, but the other hand four and caressed Bodie's leg above the knee, and moved to the thigh, where he could feel the quiver in the strong adductor muscle; he followed it down to the crotch and let his hand rest there. Bodie groaned, arching.

Doyle let his hand continue upwards, under Bodie's pullover, struggling a little with the layers of clothing. Underneath, warm skin, and Doyle found himself melting as he touched. "Take this stuff off," he hissed.

Bodie obediently pulled off his pullover then the football shirt, then the t-shirt underneath, pausing for kisses as he did so. All the while, Doyle kept his hand wandering under Bodie's clothes. He couldn't get enough of the touch of that skin. Then the shirts were gone and he couldn't get enough of the look of him, dark nipples and dark hair over pale skin. He kissed Bodie's neck and rolled over against him so they were side by side. Bodie's neck was sexy and strong and vulnerable all at once, and he licked and sucked it.

Bodie's hand was doing its own exploring. Quick, agile fingers that could assemble a gun in seconds or disassemble a bomb in minutes had unbuttoned Doyle's waistband and were unfastening his zip ad pushing his jeans down past his hips. For a moment Doyle's cock was waving in the air, then was suddenly pulled hard against the smooth cloth over Bodie's pelvis, as Bodie's large hand splayed over his buttocks, holding him locked close. "For God's sake," muttered Doyle, "will you get those bloody trousers off?"

"Demanding," said Bodie, his eyes assessing the situation. He released Doyle, rolled back, and removed his trousers, socks and shoes, watching with a smile while Doyle removed his shirt.

"Am I?" said Doyle, holding back. His jeans, shoes and socks, were suddenly in the way so he pull them off, impatiently, keeping his knees apart, relishing the expression in Bodie's eyes. Bodie reached over and caressed his cock lightly with the back of his hands, and Doyle lay back on the floor.

Then they were in each other's arms, naked, and if the floor was cold and hard, they didn't notice. They strained together, striving for climax and holding it off, touching and murmuring, gasping or crying out, subsiding and clinging.

Doyle held out longer. Bodie came first, muttering Doyle's name, shooting come over Doyle's belly and hip while Doyle kept him doing with his hands for as long as he could. He wasn't sure how long that was because while Bodie was still going it caught him up too, and his climax was hard and violent and it drove all thoughts from his mind.

They lay for a while, sticky and pillowed together. Doyle kissed Bodie's shoulder, which he could reach easily, and drifted. He didn't want to think, because that would make him stop feeling. He didn't want the real world back. But then he realized that Bodie had shivered, and they were still on the floor, and they'd regret it later.

He got up and held out his hand. "C'mon."

Bodie looked up at him. "Where?"

"To wash up, you berk. Before you freeze."

Bodie let Doyle lead him by the hand to the bathroom, where they scrubbed each other with flannels and soap, and rubbed each other dry with towels. Neither was inclined to talk much. They glanced at each other softly and often, and grinned.

Clean, Bodie said, "I suppose it must be dinnertime."

"Is that all you think about? Food?"

"Not at all," said Bodie, offended. "I often think about something else."

Doyle grinned widely. "Sex? You could make a convert of me."

"Thought I already had."

Doyle nodded, and went to retrieve their clothes from the front room. He pulled on the jeans and didn't bother to button the shirt and went barefoot to the kitchen. "Canned stew?" he called.

"Fine." It was a few minutes before he appear din the kitchen, fully dressed, even with the jersey. "Doyle, we have to talk."

Doyle froze. "Oh?" He was stirring stew in the pot, steam rising in wisps from it.

"Don't freak out. Talk is just talk, that's all."

"You sorry about what we did?"

"Sorry?" Bodie stared at him in amazement. "Are you?"

"No."

"Well, then."

"I loved it, if you need to know."

"So did I."

Doyle walked over to Bodie, kissed him fiercely, and just as suddenly walked back to the stove. "So. What do you want to say?"

"It changes everything."

"Does it."

"We can't be like we were before. At least, I can't."

"I wouldn't want to," said Doyle firmly.

"You don't want to stop?"

"No."

"You don't want to forget it ever happened?"

"Not for a minute."

"The Cow will guess."

"Will he?"

"He always does."

Doyle found that he didn't care much. "Yeah, well, he'll accept it, or not. If he accepts it we're okay. If he doesn't, we take our disgrace somewhere else. Together."

"You sure?"

"Death and sex," said Doyle. "Love and taxes. It's raining outside and we're staring at each other like a pair of prats, and you're a barbarian with a brain and there's only one thing on earth I'm sure of, and that's how I feel about us. So eat your stew."

"Thought you'd never ask," said Bodie, grinning, and sat down to eat.


End file.
